Fix Me
by queenofallmedia
Summary: Before this, I thought my experience in max was by far the most horrible thing that's ever happened to me, until I see you with your arms around another man. [nichorello oneshot. TW: self-harm / suicide]
_hey y'all , it is I. thank you for reading my story , and I hope y'all will enjoy it. feel free to leave some constructive criticism !_

 _TW: self-harm / suicide._

 _set in season 4._

* * *

I remember holding you in my arms, your tiny frame fitting perfectly against mine. The way your eyes crinkled when you laughed at one of my jokes. The way you showed up at my bunk, your round eyes wide and unsure, asking me my opinion on your makeup, and me telling you that you look beautiful, just like how you always do.

Memories flit around my brain as I climb off the van that took me from maximum security back to Litchfield. For some reason Pennsatucky is no longer the driver, replaced by Maritza. I tune out her babbling as she chatters excitedly to the new inmates, because the only thing I can think of is you.

I ask Maritza if I can just skip the tour, as this isn't my first time in Litchfield. She allows me to. I wander off to the track, where I find Chapman jogging. She runs towards me upon spotting me, and throws her arms around me. I pat her on the back and field off her questions, all the while ignoring the burning urge in my gut to ask about you. Finally, I manage to bring it up. I ask where you are.

Chapman nods, as though she understands how desperate I am to see you. She tells me you're at Visitation, and I thank her and dash off, my heart thudding in my chest.

I make my way to Visitation as fast as I can. I can barely contain my joy and my desperation to see you again. God, I've missed you. I see the back of your hair in the window. It's the same gorgeous shade of dark brown as I last remembered. I peek over the other side, and you get up. You're with a fair-skinned, dark-haired man I don't recognize. Your brother, perhaps?

My face breaks into a smile. I press my hand against the glass, my heartbeat accelerating just by looking at you. You wrap your arms around the man, and as I watch, you press your lips to his, his arms going around your small body, the way I used to wrap my own arms around you. The smile slides off my face. I can feel my heart crumbling into dust.

You know, before this, I thought my experience in max was by far the most horrible thing that's ever happened to me, until I see you with your arms around another man. I watch as you wave goodbye to him, and I slink away, unable to speak or even think as I run, away from my pain, away from the scene, away from you.

* * *

You don't seem to understand why I won't speak to you. I've waited months to see you again, and yet now that I'm back here with you, I can't even bear to look at you. I've been looking forward to so many things back here. The food, the beds, the family, and most importantly, you. You've always been the most important thing to me.

You think my distance towards you has been caused by my traumatising experience down in maximum security. You keep trying to get close to me, to hold me at night when I wake up with a sob choking me. I can't help crying when I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking, my brown curls a mess. Nightmares plague my mind every night, robbing me of sleep. Every time you try, I push you away, because I can't, I just can't.

I don't know how to tell you that I can't speak to you, that I can't even look at you. Every time I see you or hear your voice, a knife twists in my gut. It hurts too much to be near you, and yet all I want is to wrap you in my arms and hold you forever.

You tell me that you understand, when you don't, and that you know I need time, and that you will be there for me, when you won't. And then you say those words. Those three words that put me in this whole situation. The three words that led me to believe that you felt the same way about me.

I can't listen to this. I get up, leave, and go to the toilet to lock myself in a stall. And then I allow myself to cry. Outside, I can hear you knocking on the door, calling my name ever so softly and lovingly, and all I can do is just cry a little harder.

* * *

Sweat pours down my face as I run, my lungs screaming, my muscles burning and my heart pounding. I don't stop. Surprisingly, I've gotten into running ever since I got back. My muscles ache and my lungs are on fire, but it is a pain I welcome.

I've run an entire round around the track, and I stop for a moment to catch my breath, my chest rising and falling rapidly. I push a few stray sweat-soaked curls out of my face. I tighten my ponytail, and feel my rubber band snap. I curse softly as my unruly hair streams down my back.

Watson jogs up to me and offers me a new one. A few weeks after I took up running, she'd come over to me and mentioned that she wouldn't have pegged me for a runner, but that I was pretty good, according to her. Since then, the two of us had been friends of a sort, running together on certain occasions. I wonder how you'd feel about this.

I accept the rubber band gratefully, shaking out my long, curly hair and quickly sweeping it back into a messy ponytail. Watson offers to jog with me. I decline politely. Normally, I'd say yes, but not today. Today I know your husband is coming to visit you, and I want to get rid of the emotional pain by focusing on the physical pain.

I retie my shoelaces, then I'm off again, the screaming of my lungs and muscles resuming as I push my body to the limit, to drown out the image of you loving someone who isn't me.

* * *

Red comments that I look thin. She asks me if I'm alright. I give her the customary reassurances that I'm fine, there's nothing to worry about, et cetera. When I was in max, I barely had enough to eat. I'd lost a lot of weight. Upon my return, I was looking forward to getting several decent meals a day again.

And then I saw you with him, and it was like a turning point in my life. I simply could not choke down any food at all. At first, I thought it was a physical problem, that my stomach wasn't able to hold so much food, which is why after a few hours, I'd thrown up the celebratory meal Red had made me. You'd been there, but I'd sat as far away from you as I could, squeezing myself between Norma and Vause.

Eventually, I begin to suspect that it's a mental issue. I find myself engulfed by my own despair and unhappiness and negativity, my mental state influencing my physical state. I barely eat now, because I can't, even if I want to.

Red brings up the dreaded subject I've been avoiding. Chapman, Vause, and Boo had asked me already, and I'd manage to fend them off with lies, my true feelings hidden behind a crooked smile and a shrug. She asks me about you. I tense. I don't like lying to Red. She's my mother, after all. I take a deep breath. I want to spill everything to her, the awful state of my mental and emotional health, my inability to choke down any food, the betrayal I feel towards your marriage, the way I feel so alone, now that you're not mine anymore, and never will be again.

I tell her everything is alright.

* * *

I find myself befriending people I never thought I'd be friends with. I'm drifting apart from Chapman and Vause. Even though we remain good friends, I don't tell them anything personal anymore. It's quite sad, considering how close we once were, especially Vause and I, but things happen. People drift apart, and people simply stop caring. Just like you did.

I work in the library now, as Healy feels that me working in Electrical again wouldn't be a good idea, and they've already got lots of people on cleaning duty. Working at the laundromat is out too, as Healy doesn't trust the meth-heads.

Poussey is supposed to keep an eye on me, to make sure I don't pull anything again. I dread having to hear her get on me for being a privileged white girl or some shit all the time. Instead, she allows me to have some of her hooch when I'm having a bad day with absolutely no ulterior motives, insisting that I take the alcohol and promising that I don't have to give her anything in return. She talks to me, to get me to open up about you.

Poussey can understand my feelings, and she is warm and kind, and I feel that maybe one day it'll be alright after all.

Then I hear you come into the library and say my name, or call out to me during dinner, and the slight bit of joy in my heart melts away, and I turn to meet you, the woman who lied to me; the woman made me like this. The woman I love.

* * *

Me and Boo rekindle the sparks of our old friendship. She is sympathetic towards my situation, and invites me to hang out with her more often. She introduces me to her new best friend Pennsatucky, and I find myself getting along with the Christian ex meth-head surprisingly well. She is accepting of my sexuality, and even offers to help me find a new wife to cheer me up. What the hell happened while I was gone? I was looking forward to letting you fill me in on the details, with your little comments on the side that make me laugh. That dream has long since been shattered.

Boo and Pennsatucky fill me in on everything I've missed—Red and Healy's 'affair', Poussey and Soso's possible relationship, Chapman and Vause's breakup, Red's reinstatement to the kitchen, and of course, they tell me about your wedding.

It was a small affair, they say. Only Red and Healy were present. They tell me that you seemed to have forgotten about me after a while, and the two of them proceed to insult you, no doubt to make me feel better. It doesn't. I feel even worse. Even so, I'm glad that I have them. They try very hard to make me feel better, and for that I'm grateful.

My friendship with Watson also grows. I sit with my new friend during meals, as I'm still unable to face you. Sometimes I sit with Chapman, or Vause, or Boo and Pennsatucky, but never with you. Watson's friends had objected initially, but even they had grown used to me after a while. Perhaps Poussey sticking up for me has helped.

During mealtimes, Watson makes me choke down my food, telling me that a good athlete needs to keep up their strength. Even if I don't sit with her, she comes over to remind me to eat, and I'm secretly very grateful that she cares. I tell her that running is just a way for me to release my emotions, that I don't look for a future in running, but she insists, and the look in her eyes tell me that this is about more than just running, that she genuinely cares about me, that she wants me to eat. I am thin, very thin, the few pounds of baby fat I never managed to shed all gone now. My cheeks are hollow, my cheekbones prominent, my shoulders bony and my ribs visible. My limbs look like twigs.

I force myself to eat every day even though I just end up throwing it all up a few hours later, but Watson doesn't know that. She is always there, encouraging me. And that is where I make another unlikely friend. Soso, who has a thing with Poussey, will always be there babbling on about her experience during her hunger strike. She follows me after meals sometimes, insisting that I stop before I end up in the hospital like Sister Ingalls did.

One day, I snap and tell her that no, it's not that I won't eat, I simply _can_ _'_ _t fucking eat_. Soso takes a good look at me, and she can see the unhappiness written in the dark circles under my eyes, in the sloppy way I do my makeup (quite frankly, what is the point?), in the way I carry myself, as though I'm not a human being; in a way that shows that I don't care about my own existence. She can see all the things you never could. I'm not sure if you never could, or you just chose not to.

She is surprisingly nice to me, especially given our past relationship. She offers me her antidepressants, and is always with me whenever I need her. She seems to understand all the unhappiness I'm going through, and I'm able to relax with her, in a way I am completely unable to with you.

* * *

I have taken to wearing my white sweater beneath my beige scrubs, and when it's in the wash I wear my grey jacket instead. Whatever it is, I always make sure my arms are concealed.

When I roll up my sleeves for the first time in months, it is to show Soso the marks on my arms. Deep, painful lines are etched into my skin, leaving scars that will never fade. Soso has been demanding to see them, as she knew something was fishy the day someone spilled sauce onto my clothes and though it seeped through the fabric of my sleeves, I refused to roll them up. And now here she is, her round eyes widened in horror as her fingertips trace every single injury I've caused myself.

Reluctantly, I tell her that running isn't enough. The screaming of my lungs and the burning of my muscles still cannot mask the pain of the knife you stabbed into my chest, so out of desperation, I'd smashed a mirror and stolen a shard from it, using it to bring a new form of physical pain to myself. Every line on my skin is a reminder of the pain you brought me when I found out you belong to someone else.

Soso embraces me and promises me that everything will be okay one day, and I do my absolute best to believe her. Despite all their efforts, I know that at the end, all my new friends still cannot fix me. I can't ever fully put my shattered mess of a heart back together, even with their help, because a large piece of it has always and will always belong to you.

* * *

You burst into the library one day, demanding to know the truth. You ask me why I don't speak to you anymore, why I can't even look at you anymore. You want to know why I didn't even bother going to see you when I first returned. You ask me if I even _care_. The problem is not that I don't care, it's that I care too much.

You press your hand to my heart, and you say that there will always be a connection between the two of us, and that you will always care about me, and oh, I want to believe you, so badly, but you shattered that connection when you shattered my heart.

I look you directly in the eye for the first time since I've gotten back. Your dark hair is still short and curled, your lipstick and eye makeup flawless as usual, your skin fair and glowing, your eyes wide and round, your irises the colour of dark chocolate. You still look like the same woman I fell in love with, oh so long ago.

I tell you that that connection is gone. I tell you I know that you've moved on, that you don't need me anymore. You are sad, angry, shocked, and you throw your arms around me and tell me that I will always be important to you. Why do you always tell me things that I will desperately hold on to?

Your arms are tight around me, your embrace warm. I can feel the tears forming in my eyes. Every line, every mark on my body caused by you begins to burn. I feel my breath stopping. I can't think. A warm hand on my shoulder steadies me.

Poussey is behind me, holding my shoulder protectively. You let go of me and ask Poussey to leave, as you and I have to talk. For a moment, I think my friend will leave, and I want to scream for her to stay, though a small part of me is glad that she will leave, because I'd like you to wrap your arms around me again. However, she stands her ground. Poussey orders you to leave. Angry and shocked, you stand your own ground, stating that it is your right to stay here and peruse the library. Watson wanders out from behind a different shelf and tells you to leave too, holding a sprayer and a rag threateningly, her expression fierce.

Soso, Boo, and Pennsatucky also come over from god-knows-where, menacing looks on their faces. Vaguely, I realise that they might've known beforehand that you would be coming to confront me, and they've decide to come here too. I'm grateful, but I can't show it, because I can't move or speak, and I can barely even _think_. The five of them shield me, making sure you don't have a chance to hurt me again. I never thought it'd come to this, from me protecting you from others, to others protecting me from you.

You try reaching out to me one more time. I cannot look you in the eye. You have no choice but to leave. I glance up as you go. You turn back to look at me one last time. You look so sad. You shouldn't be this sad, as it isn't your heart that is broken. I turn away. I can hear your footsteps fading away, and wait till they're completely gone before my knees give out and I fall, tears silently rolling down my face.

My new friends, most of them with nothing in common with each other band together, each of them crouching near me, offering me their warmth. Boo pats my back gently, Pennsatucky allows me to rest my head on her shoulder as she strokes my hair soothingly; Poussey gently dabs at my tears, while Soso sits on my other side with her arms around me as I cry, and Watson murmurs words of comfort to me.

I want to tell them that I don't need their help, that I'm _fine_ , but the words won't come out, and maybe just this once, laying my whole heart out isn't such a bad thing.

* * *

A few days later, the six of us congregate in the bathroom. I hand Soso my shard of mirror, and ask her to cut my hair. She only agreed to if I promised to throw the shard away later. I said yes, though both she and I already know that I won't.

Since Sophia is still in the SHU, I decide to ask the people I trust the most right now. My curly hair hangs down to my waist, and it gets in my way, so it's time to get it cut. As the five of them bicker over the hairstyle I'd look the best in, Red sweeps in and ejects them from the bathroom.

She takes the shard from Soso and begins to saw at my unruly curls, as though she already knows what I want. She tells me she knows I'm not okay, but she wants me to know that she will wait for me to be able to open up to her, and that she knows why. She tells me that no matter what she will always be my mother, and that she will always love me whether I like it or not.

As locks of my curly hair fall to the bathroom floor, I smile, but I don't cry. I can't cry, see. I can't feel anything; not happiness, not despair, not anger, nothing. My entire existence is a bleak, grey thing that I just want to end.

I run my fingers through my newly cut hair. It stops just above my shoulders. I ask my mother why she cut it this short. Red shrugs and says that it won't get in the way now. I'm glad that it's this short now. Back when my hair was longer, you used to run your fingers through it when you lay in my arms, murmuring about how much you liked my hair. I remember the way you used to comb my hair with your fingers for fun, and giggle every time you reached a tangled lock, your eyes sparkling. Do you still remember those times?

The memories bring a painful twinge to my gut. Despite my inability to feel any sort of emotion, the memories of you still bring pain to me. Just pure, undiluted pain, with no emotional accompaniment.

I wonder how someone can affect me this badly, how someone could vanquish the way my emotions raged around like a storm, turning my being into a hopeless, empty shell.

I slide the mirror shard into my pocket, and leave with Red.

* * *

You finally catch me alone. I was in the bathroom throwing up after lunch, and I flush the toilet before leaving the stall, an awful feeling in my throat, stomach and mouth. I can hear your footsteps as I rinse my mouth. I can recognize you simply by the way you walk, and _your husband doesn't_ , I think to myself with a sort of petty, bitter satisfaction.

You say my name, your voice soft and hesitant. I freeze. I will myself to relax. I turn around and give you a casual greeting, forcing a half-smile onto my face. I can see that you've been crying at night, that you're tired, and sad, and I know all these things simply by _looking_ at you, because oh _G_ _od_ , I think I love you a little bit too much.

You barrel into my chest, clutching me tightly. I realise you're crying. Awkwardly, I wrap my arms around you, holding you close. You ask me if I hate you. I tell you the truth—no, I don't. I couldn't hate you, even though heaven knows I've tried.

Then you ask me again, _why, why won't you speak to me, Nicky?_

The way you say my name, as though I'm the only thing that matters to you, drives a wedge into my heart. I don't respond, not even when you look up, your face tearstained, your eyes rimmed with red, waiting for a reply I will never give. I don't speak, even when you step out of my arms and grab my shoulders and begin wailing at me to _fucking talk to me, Nicky, I love you, please don't be like this, I missed you so much, please talk to me, Nicky, please, don't do this, please I know you're not okay please let me help you, I love you, please._

Your words are lies, and I know it, and on some level, I know you do too.

I remain silent.

* * *

I find you crying in your bunk a week or so later. I want to walk past you, pretending you don't exist. I have other things to do, and I'm already late for library duty. My feet stop at your bunk. I've never been able to walk away from you, especially when I hear you crying. The sound of your sobs call to me, like a mermaid's song luring a sailor to their death. A fitting metaphor.

I walk into your cube slowly, and gently scoop you into my arms as you sob into my chest about how your husband won't be around for your birthday, and I remember the celebrations I've thrown you over the years, and how much you enjoyed being queen of the day. I realise your birthday is in a few days, and make a mental note to get you a gift.

I don't say anything, I just hold you in my arms, stroking your hair as you cry. I want to press a kiss into your dark hair more than anything in the world, but I restrain myself, allowing my self-loathing at my own weakness to consume me.

As you clutch me and wail, I murmur your name softly, and you just cry a little harder, my name on your lips. I start thinking about everything we've been through together. You know almost everything about me, and I've been there for you at your lowest. I've seen you at your best, and I've also been there for everything else in between. I'm the one who understands you the best, and I'm the one who's put you back together whenever for years, but all that was for nothing, because at the end of the day the one you want isn't me.

I want to break down in your arms this way, to cry into your chest until I have nothing left in me, until everything will be alright; until you love me too. I miss you so much, and oh god, the temptation is overwhelming, but still I don't do it, because it is a sign of weakness, that I miss you more than you ever could miss me.

Sick and full of pride, I sit there, holding you in my arms until you're okay again and at the end of it, I'm still broken.

* * *

I avoid you every day after that incident. However, you come up to me all the time, and every time I see that fucking ring on your finger, it is a reminder of what I can never have.

On your birthday Red threw you a party that I didn't attend. I just slipped in to place your gift on a table, then escaped. I'd arranged for my friends outside to send me a romance novel, then I'd wrapped it in blue paper because I knew you liked that colour. I know you're a hopeless romantic, you've always been. I hope you like my gift.

Nowadays, I just go through the motions, without processing anything. I treat you cordially, my demeanour cool and my eyes hollow. I don't show any emotion. I have nothing left.

I can eat again, without throwing it all up a while later. I can run further than before, so I push myself all the way to my breaking point, till one time I actually passed out, and Watson had to take me down to Medical. I do my job well, restacking books neatly at top speed, memorizing the book arrangement Poussey has drummed into me.

I've learned how to pretend everything is fine. I know how to fake emotions, to pour false happiness into my eyes, to give out crooked smiles that genuinely seem sincere. But a little bit of me dies inside every time I see you, and it doesn't take long before I'm fucking miserable again. I can't believe I'm back here, back where I first began. How are you doing this to me, and why?

I fill myself with the exhaustion from running, with the burning that accompanies my body from a long run. Still, my emotions always resurface, plaguing my nightmares with your face, laughing at me as I scream your name and reach through the bars of my cell in max; you, smiling at a man whose face I don't recognize, your lips going to meet his, and I'm trapped there, screaming as I watch you enveloped in the arms of another.

I don't sleep much. My dark circles are permanent markings beneath my eyes. Quite frankly, I just want to die. One day, I go to the bathroom stall where I throw up almost every day, my shard of mirror in my pocket. I know what I'm doing. I am prepared.

I draw the sharp object across both my wrists as deeply as I can, hissing through my teeth as scarlet blood blooms from the wounds. I drag a few more agonizing lines across each wrist, the crimson liquid from the new injuries joining the old ones. I murmur a soft apology to Soso, hoping that she'll forgive me. The blood drips down my wrists, soaking into my beige pants. I don't mind, since after all this, I'll be dead.

I feel myself grow lightheaded from blood loss, and I drop the shard onto the floor, where it shatters. I fall to the floor and close my eyes, ready to die. And that's when I hear it. Or to be more precise, when I hear _you_.

You scream my name, and my eyelids flutter open weakly. You kick the door open, breaking the flimsy lock. You tear your cleaning rag into strips with strength I never knew you had. You bandage my bleeding wrists desperately, tears leaking from your eyes.

I can hear a sort of buzz in my ears, muffling your words. The edges of my vision darken. Through the haze, I can hear you vaguely screaming that _YOU BETTER NOT FUCKING DIE ON ME NICKY, I love you, I'm so sorry, I know what I did, oh_ _G_ _od I'm so sorry, baby please don't die, oh_ _G_ _od there's so much blood, please don't, I love you, I need you Nicky I fucking need you, no, please, oh_ _G_ _od there's so much blood everywhere, oh baby you'll be fine, you'll be fine, oh_ _G_ _od Nicky please don't go..._

And as my vision goes black, the last thing I see is tears falling from your dark eyes, the last thing I feel your lips on mine.

* * *

I awake to a white ceiling, and a numb feeling in my wrists. I realise that there are bandages tied around them. I blink slowly, my mind sluggish. I hear someone call my name. My vision refocuses slowly. I blink again.

By my side are two women, one with dark brown hair, a wiry frame and a grey jacket, and the other with short black hair cut like a boy's, and a white singlet stretched over her bulky body. Boo and Pennsatucky. Boo breathes a sigh of relief, and Pennsatucky laughs happily. They exclaim their delight that I'm awake, and I ask them what happened. There seems to be a gap in my memory.

They tell me that I was found in the toilet, blood soaking through a few makeshift bandages on my wrists. I'd almost died, according to them. I'd managed to slice a vital vein open, and from there my life's blood spilled out, soaking my clothes. I'd been unconscious for 3 days. I try to sit up, wincing at the pain shooting through my wrists, and I glance over and see someone sleeping by my side.

The person has her arms folded on my bed, her head resting on her arms, the way I used to sleep during school when I was young. Her face is concealed, but I know who it is. I'd recognize that head of hair anywhere.

I whisper your name softly. Pennsatucky tells me that you've been there by my side the whole time I was out. Red was there too, initially. They tried to pull the two of them away, but you'd screamed and kicked and cried till Healy gave in and let you stay. Red wasn't so lucky, as she was in charge of the kitchen, so she had her responsibilities, and was forced to leave.

You were there, they tell me. You were the one who'd discovered me, who'd tried to save me. Ironic, then, that the whole reason I was there was because of you.

They also mention that Watson, Soso, Poussey, and others have come to visit me too, talking to me while I was unconscious. The two of them chat with me for a bit before leaving, until a CO comes in to bark at them to get back to their job. Now that you and I are alone, I finally allow myself to kiss you, softly, on top of your sweet-smelling dark hair.

I remember your lips enveloping mine before I blacked out. I remember you calling my name. And I realise that yes, you do love me, just not the way I want you to, and I don't know if that knowledge numbs the pain or tears me apart.

* * *

A few days after I get out of Medical, you have your release party. I only go because I have to, not because I want to. The whole thing just depresses me, because even though I know your going away is the best thing for me, I don't want to be apart from you.

Everybody's been glad that I am okay, that I survived. Healy questioned me about the tool I used to slit my wrists, and I told him it was a rock I found in the yard. You must've helped me hide the shard, and for that I am grateful. Thank you.

The next day, a bunch of COs were delegated the task of checking the yard for rocks, and it was hilarious, watching a bunch of adults dig around a massive field for potential weapons. I was given antidepressants, more compulsory counselling sessions, as well as extra work duty as punishment. Red came up to me later on, clutching me and thanking the gods for allowing me to live. However, I still hadn't gotten a chance to speak to you, and upon spotting your dark head in the crowd, I make my way to you.

I bring up the incident as casually as I can, and I thank you for saving my life. You wrap your arms around me and tell me that you'd die if I died, that I mean so, so much to you, and I allow myself to believe you for a single, beautiful moment. You apologise, because you finally know what you've done. You say you're sorry for saying that to me, that 'I love you' is a promise you'd made to me that you really did mean to keep, but that you've been so lonely. I don't tell you how awful max has been, how I can hear inmates screaming at every hour of the day, of how I wasn't sure if there was someone in there with me or I was just going crazy and those were just voices in my head, of how after a short while I had succumbed to the torture, and spent my days pulling my hair and screaming my throat raw. I accept your pain, and don't burden you with any of mine.

You tell me you're going to miss me. I nod, and admit that I will miss you too. I bring up the kiss, and I ask you why. You tell me that if I died, you want me to at least die loved. I thank you again, and you offer me a dance. I accept, and the two of us dance together like no one is watching, the way we used to, and for one night, everything is okay.

* * *

The next day, a crowd is waiting to send you off. You hug everybody goodbye, seeming to be purposefully avoiding me. After you say goodbye to everyone else, you come up to me. You stare into my eyes. This is it.

You wrap your arms around my neck, and I wrap mine around your waist. I hold you close to me one final time, the moment seeming to stretch. You pull back, your arms still around me. I look into your eyes. Your dark eyes, so dark they appear black from afar. You're still the same woman I fell in love with. I can see in those eyes that you don't want to leave me, but you have to. Please, if you must go, then go.

Ever so softly, I press my lips against yours for a moment. You don't resist, and I melt into the kiss. I hear a CO snap at me, and I release you, far too quickly. I stare sadly at you for a while. It's time to let go of all the lies I've allowed myself to believe.

I say goodbye, and I finally tell you the truth—that I love you, that I always have, and that I always will. You tell me you may not love me the same way, but you and I will always be connected in a way no one else can even try to get close to. You say you'll miss me, and that you'll come to visit when you can. I smile sadly and shake my head. I tell you that you won't. I don't take it personally; who would take the time and trouble to visit someone who is just a reminder of their time in hell? It's not like you love me or anything, so there really isn't any reason for you to come back and visit me.

The last thing I see is the look of shock and sadness on your face before you are taken to the van that will bring you to your perfect life.

And that's the last time I ever see your face.


End file.
